


Jezebel

by awkwardkermitfrog



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Blood, Broken Bones, Cannibalism, Kidnapping, Other, Starvation, meatagain mclaughlin, post apocalyptic, this is a horror story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 19:01:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12216993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardkermitfrog/pseuds/awkwardkermitfrog
Summary: The year is 2027. Rhett takes a girl across the desert.I would suggest listening to "Jezebel" by Iron & Wine, as it inspired much of this fic.





	Jezebel

The year is 2027. It is summer in California - or what used to be California, anyway. I am being taken along a path, chained, by the tallest man I’ve ever seen. The sun is beating down on me, my scalp is burning, my fair skin will be peeling soon. 

“Where are you taking me?” I ask him, not for the first time. In response he pulls the chain to get me to walk a little faster. I stumble and catch up, wishing he’d taken me when I was wearing shoes. 

We walk until nightfall and he stops and looks around. He instructs me to sit. I do, grateful to be off of my aching feet.

For several minutes I sit there as he gets supplies out of his backpack, little bits of bread and water. He hands me a piece of bread and his canteen, and I take them gratefully. The stars are bright and the moon is clear above us, giving us some illumination, once our eyes adjust. I can see his beard clearly. His hands are worn and there are some scratches on his arms and face. 

“Where did you get those scratches?” 

“You should sleep.” The first words he’s spoken all day. I look down at my handcuffs and the chain that leads from my body to his and shake my head. 

“I’m afraid of you.” I say quietly. 

“That makes sense.” He chuckles. “My name is Rhett.” 

I watch as he holds out his hand as if expecting me to shake. We are suddenly two normal people in a normal world, meeting in a coffee shop for lunch, rather than two starving people in this wasteland. I look at his face and do not take his hand. He drops it. We look away from each other.

“Am I safe with you?” My voice is low, scared. I look at him and he nods, but looks uncomfortable. He lays down in the dirt, right there, and begins to close his eyes. I slowly eat the bread, feeling its dry texture against my parched throat, and use the canteen to wash it down.

I cannot sleep. I am too anxious. I draw pictures in the dirt and look at Rhett as he begins to snore, loudly, giving away to anyone near where we are. How vulnerable we are. 

I am weak, helpless, and very much afraid. I lay down a small ways away from my kidnapper and weep. 

* * *

  
  


“Wake up.” 

I look up groggily to see the large man, Rhett, standing over me and shaking me gently. He looks sad, as if he’s seen things that changed him, and he knows there are more horrors to come. 

We return to our journey across the desert, walking without speaking, watching the sun travel across the sky. I shuffle and curse my flat feet and the heat of long hair as I wish for a breeze. When one does come, it’s never long enough, and I feel sweatier than I did before it passed by.

“Please tell me where you’re taking me.” I ask again, at about midday, when we stop to rest. 

Rhett looks away from me as if I’ve asked him something very personal. We are two strangers in a bookstore and I am a saleswoman who has overstepped her bounds in the romance section. 

After several minutes he looks at me and asks, “What’s your name?”

“Jezebel.” I am surprised by my quickness to answer.

Rhett nods and looks away from me again. He picks at the dirt and curses under his breath. I remember when I was younger and the world was in order reading about sociopaths and serial killers. I remember reading that it was smart to use your name and try to appear human, as human as possible, as personable as possible. 

“I have a sister named Samantha.” 

Rhett ignores me, picking at the dirt.

“My mother’s name is Clarice. My father died when I was three.” 

Rhett begins to dig at the dirt more aggressively. 

“Before my cat died -” 

“Can you please not?” Rhett snaps. He turns to me with a look of impatience before his face softens again. 

“Can I not… what?” Playing stupid, feigning ignorance. 

“Can you… can you not make this harder than it has to be?” Rhett sounds defeated, guilty. We are in a retail store and I’ve caught him stealing a dirty magazine. He stands up and pulled on the chain to signal to me that it’s time to start walking. 

* * *

  
  


Our feet make little crunching sounds against the dirt. The pain in my ankles is intense, my flat feet unused to walking like this without support. I try not to whimper but can’t help but let out a gasp as a sharp pain shoots from the sole of my right foot up my leg. 

Rhett turns and looks at me as I reach down and grasp my foot, trying to massage out the cramp. I look up at him, embarrassed. 

“I have flat feet.” I explain. 

He nods. He walks over to me and bends down. 

I look at him, unsure what to do, what he wants me to do.

“Hop on my back.” He instructs, looking back at me. 

I shake my head, still holding my foot. 

“I can carry you.” He explains. “Come on.” He sets down his backpack and ushers me over to him.

Carefully I step towards him, put the backpack on as best I can, and climb onto his back. He supports my legs and I wrap my arms around his neck, grateful to rest for a little while.

We are silent for awhile, the only sounds coming from the heat of the desert. I listen to his breathing, his pulse. I adjust myself and do my best to not slip off of him, my handcuffs making it difficult to find my grip, knocking against my wrists.

“My mother was a writer.” I say softly. I wait. No response, negative or positive. So I continue. 

“She wrote memoirs. She would travel to all these different places and write down what they were like so that other people could decide if they wanted to go there. If tourism went up, she got paid more.” I look out across the sand at the different bushes and cacti that have managed to thrive in this harsh environment. “Sometimes, my sister and I got to go with her. I don’t know what my favorite trip was, though.” I bite my lip and try not to cry. “I don’t have the pictures any more. Burnt up for warmth.” 

Rhett grunts.

“My mother told me that my father was an electrician. He got caught in an accident and it electrocuted him. I never got to know him. My sister was six.” I catch the sadness in my throat and swallow before it climbs out of my mouth. “I don’t remember him much.” 

He shifts his arms and lets out a long breath before continuing to walk.

“Will you please tell me where we’re going?” I ask as calmly as I can manage. 

Rhett does not respond, instead continues forward.

“Will you… at least let me out of these handcuffs?” I implore, desperate for some sign that Rhett has mercy on me. 

“You’d run away.” He says bluntly. “Can’t have that.” 

I say nothing, but I agree with him and he knows that I do. The ground is the only source of noise besides our hot, sweaty breathing. I feel sticky and uncomfortable. I look at the profile of his face, what I can see, and wonder if I seem more like a human than a victim. I am constantly reminded of how strange a place the desert has always seemed to me, how foreign. I miss my cave and before that, my city. 

“I’m human, you know.” I protest weakly.

“Yes.” Rhett nods. “I know.”

“I love people.” I don’t know how to convey what I want him to feel.

“I’m sure you do.” Rhett says, exasperated. 

“Do you love someone?” The question surprises me as it comes out of my mouth. My heart jumps. I wait.

“Yes.” 

I am speechless, shocked that there is anyone left to love. There is silence for another moment as I navigate what might be the right thing to say. 

“Are they still human?” It’s an important question. 

Rhett doesn’t answer. His silence does.

“I used to watch a lot of television. I read a lot of books, too.” I frown and lean on the back of Rhett’s neck, the closest thing to human touch I’ve gotten in over a year. “All my books are in my cave though.” 

“Did you have a favorite?” 

I look up at this, wondering if he can feel my shock at being asked a question by him. “Yes… a book of poems by a friend.” 

“That sounds nice.” Rhett shifts his arms again. He sounds hollow inside, the kind of hollow you become when the world takes everything out of you. “Do you remember any of the poems?” 

I lean back onto the back of his neck and wonder if I can recall a verse. I take a deep breath and sing:

“There’s a wound in my bones

And yet I chose you

So now we may die, entwined together;

Let me rid my soul from you,

Let me fade forever;

Let me strip away what you made me

And let me fade forever. 

I choose when I die,

I chose my soul for you

So let me die down here; 

Let me fade forever.”

We are quiet again. Then Rhett speaks briefly: “You have a nice voice.” 

I lower my head onto the back of his neck and allow myself silent tears.

* * *

  
  


“Can we eat something?” My stomach hurts badly, and we haven’t eaten in awhile. 

“There’s nothing left.” Rhett says apologetically. “I gave you the last of the bread.”

“Oh.” I feel conflicted. We continue for a ways longer until the sun goes down again and Rhett stops to let me down. 

“Is your ankle okay?” He seems genuinely concerned. This frightens me.

“It feels a bit better, yes.” I look at my feet and notice that they are a bit swollen still. “I’m not used to walking around without arch supports.” 

Rhett nods. 

“Or at least ankle braces.”

Rhett nods again and lays down. I watch him as he puts his hand to his brown and rubs the bridge of his nose, as if he’s frustrated about something. 

“I have to do this, you know.” He says matter of factly. 

“I don’t know.” I hold up my handcuffs and shake them, making the chain rattle. “You haven’t told me anything.” 

Rhett doesn’t respond. He simply rolls over onto his side. I wiggle the backpack off of me and notice that it sounds as if he’s the one quietly weeping this time. After some time, his breathing slows, and he slips into unconsciousness.

I cannot sleep. I cannot let myself sleep. I have to try again to escape. I look down at my hands and my thumbs - they are the key. I swallow hard and look around me for a stick. Behind me, a few feet away, is a nice one. I stand up as slowly as I can, so that the chain will not make much noise, and watch Rhett the entire time I do so. He doesn’t stir, but continues to dream. I reach my leg out and inch the stick towards me. Once it is in front of me, I pick it up and put it in my mouth, between my teeth. I bite hard. The stick is tough. I won’t break it easily. 

I look down at my hands, wondering how exactly I am going to go about this. Before I felt that I couldn’t finish because I would scream. I might, still. The idea of what I’m about to do to my own body disgusts me, but I don’t feel I have any other choice. 

I decide to do my left hand first. Maybe I wouldn’t need to do my right hand. Maybe my right hand could remain unbroken. Unlikely.

I reach over for the backpack, which is still next to me, and began to unzip it quietly. I just needed some tools, I kept telling myself. Just some tools. This is normal. Everything is going to be fine. My racing heart says otherwise, but I continue to say it to myself, silently -  _ everything will be alright _ .   
I look over at Rhett expectantly, wondering when he is going to wake up and catch me. Instead, he mumbles something from a dream and shivers in his sleep. I reached into the backpack and feel something heavy and cold and solid under my hands. Pulling it out, I examine a wrench in the moonlight. I squint at it, trying to make out its detail in the near darkness of the desert. I weigh it in my hands. It's a good, solid wrench. It might work. I set it down and reach into the backpack again, this time feeling something like cardboard. I pull it out slowly and sniff, unsure of what I am feeling. It feels almost like a book, but I am not sure. 

Nerves are beginning to get to me now. If I am going to do it, I have to do it. Biting down on the stick again, I take a deep breath and try to situate the wrench in some kind of way that I can use to break my thumb joints. I can’t very well swing the wrench into my hand with the other as the cuffs are not loose enough to allow it. I can’t put it in the ground and slam my hands into it, as I probably wouldn’t produce enough force. Frustrated tears begin to crawl down my cheeks and I curse at myself for having so little fortitude. 

Then I had another idea: I could put the wrench in my mouth and swing from there. 

I spit out the stick and gently place the wrench in my mouth, unsure of how hard I can bite down without breaking teeth. I look at my hands. My eyes had adjusted a while ago to the darkness and I can see that they are shaking horribly. My breathing is rapid. I have never felt more afraid of pain than I do in this moment. I swing my head back and, with as much force as I can muster, slam my head forward, knocking the wrench into my right hand. 

There is pain searing through my head and mouth. I am doing my best not to scream as pain shoots down my arm, sharp, intense pain, and I feel my mouth fill with blood. The wrench has fallen to the side. In the moonlight I can see little bits of my own teeth on the ground with it, mixed with dirt, blood, and saliva. I am gasping, sucking blood through my teeth and the new holes in my gums. I want to bite down on something to keep from whimpering, but the pain shooting through my head and jaw are so intense that the thought of putting something else in my mouth is unbearable. I look at my hand and see that, while I did not hear the crunch, my thumb joint is pushed inward to the middle of my palm. I wonder if when daylight breaks I will be able to see bone. I don’t care to think about it. 

Still trying to grasp the pain I’m in, still reeling, I gently slide my hand out of the cuff. My right hand is free. I want to cry for joy but don’t dare to make a sound. I can’t help whimpering though. I am crying freely as I realize in horror I have to do it  _ again _ , I have to break my other hand, I am going to have to either ruin the other side of my mouth or somehow grip the wrench in my now broken hand and go through this pain  _ again _ . 

I swallow blood as I try to grip the wrench with my broken hand, but the pain is too intense. For a moment I sit there and allow myself to cry, blood and tears dripping down my face onto my skirt. I have another idea: stomping on my hand until it’s broken.

I pull my left hand towards me, careful to move the chain as little as possible. I get as close as I feel I can and still kick my own hand. I feel strangely grateful for my hyper flexibility. I almost giggle and wonder for a second if the pain has sent me into shock. 

I raise up my right foot and, as hard as I can, slam it into my hand, causing me to roll around in pain, trying not to howl. When I get the courage to look at my hand, I feel rather stupid. It is not broken. I stomped on myself for nothing. 

I have another idea. Gingerly, I take the wrench back into my working hand, and then put it in my mouth. I nearly gag, as my mouth continues to fill with blood, but the solution seems so obvious I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before: let gravity do the work.

I look over at Rhett and congratulate myself on my ability to be quiet, because he’s barely stirred. When I get far away from here, I plan to scream some expletives.

I take a deep breath and position the wrench over my mouth before I let it fall and feel a familiar pain. This time I hear the crunch of metal on bone and can’t stop myself from letting out a small scream. It comes out muffled, as my mouth is full of blood, saliva, and broken bits of teeth, so it’s not as loud as it could be, but it’s loud. I look at Rhett, horrified, frozen. My hand is moving on its own out of the cuff, painfully, some skin being torn along the way. I feel cold blood move down my wrist and look down to see exposed flesh, my skin hanging loosely, torn. I stand up and begin to hobble away, unsure where to go. The only thing I know is that I can’t stop moving, I can’t stop moving. 

My feet scream when I put pressure on them, so I begin to walk awkwardly, putting all my weight on the sides. I feel blood pool in my mouth and begin to breathe through my mouth, not caring if blood goes down my chin and onto my clothes. I spit every now and then on the ground, leaving a trail of saliva and red matter in my wake. I see the sky begin to shift into dawn and look behind me to see Rhett is walking towards me, his silhouette huge and intimidating in the shadow of the day. I let out a small scream and limp, faster, as fast as I can stand. In the distance I see what looks like a barn, or maybe a shed - shelter and something I can barricade, a way to get away from him. 

I turn behind me and see that he isn’t running. Just walking. He’s keeping a steady pace behind me, and my speeding up doesn’t seem to be having any effect on getting away from the situation. I fall to my knees, the pain in my feet so intense I can no longer put any weight on them, and begin to crawl, tripping over my cotton skirt. It tears underneath me and I try to pull it up with my wrists, the fire in my hands so intense I gasp every time something accidentally touches them. I am getting close to the barn. I turn back towards Rhett and see that he is still not running, simply walking at a leisurely pace towards me. He is not afraid that I can get away. 

I am feet away from the barn. I cry out as I hoist myself to my feet, the pressure on my arches intense. I take my elbow and try to use it to open the door, but it only scratches and falls back into place. I try it again and swing my leg in the way of the opening; it is enough. I nudge my thigh into the opening of the door and feel the splinters of wood tearing at my skirt and skin, but I don’t care. A stench of rotting flesh hits me and I try not to gag as I inch my way inwards and fall into the dirt floor, shouting as my hands hit the ground. I am in too much pain to think about what to do or what is going to happen. The smell is powerful, almost overwhelming. I hold my wrist under my nose and try to take shallow breaths so that I won’t taste it, breathing out as much as possible. The combination of pain, the smell, and blood loss makes stars dance in the corners of my eyes, and I find it difficult to focus - but then I spot something in the hay.

I get up to my knees, still letting out little cries of pain, holding my hands in front of me awkwardly, and urge myself to get to my feet, but I feel so strange about what I’m seeing that I’ve forgotten how to stand. 

There’s a man in the hay.

His hair is black and matted against his head. His bones protrude from his skin; he has not eaten anything in a long time. He looks to be asleep, but as I shuffle away from him and disturb some more of the hay, he perks up. Bright, brilliant blue eyes look at me. And then I see it - there’s a collar around his neck, and a chain holding him to a post. Like a dog who’s been forgotten. I looked behind him to see piles of bones, bits of clothes, pieces of meat and organs from a very familiar animal. I look around me to see bits of blood and matted hair are everywhere on the floor.

He looks at me for a second before snarling, charging forward, only to be caught by the chain. I’ve never seen anything so hungry. I am panting now, backing away as fast as my body will allow, distracted momentarily from my bloody mouth and broken hands.

“I was bringing you here for him.” 

I look over at the door to see Rhett standing there, looking distant. He walks behind a wooden wall over to the fence post where the man’s chain is secured. I watch in horror as the black haired main struggles against his chain, repeatedly slipping and being snapped backwards, clawing as he desperately tries to reach me. I feel like my muscles have stopped working. 

“He’s very hungry. We both are. Food is… running out.” Rhett looked at me as I tried to grasp at what he was saying, tried to understand. Rhett looks down at the ground and begins to loosen the chain that was around the post. Before he loosens the last wrung that holds the snarling, snapping man back, he looks me directly in the eye. A tear rolls down his cheek and he lets it fall, still holding onto the chain for that last second that my life will ever be the same. 

“I’m sorry.”

He lets go.

**Author's Note:**

> Remember how Jezebel was torn apart in the Bible by wild dogs? Yeah.
> 
> Comments and feedback are always appreciated.


End file.
